


What Matters Most

by artoni



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Multi, Other, Phantomish Smut, sparkplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artoni/pseuds/artoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus struggles against Sentinel’s grip as the older robot pins Optimus down. - canon line from DOTM 'Descriptive Audio for the Visually Impaired'<br/>What follows is most definitely -not- canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caius/gifts).



> DISCLAIMER I am taking that line 100% out of context, as I only saw it tweeted by another. I have utterly no idea where it fits in to the story and frankly I’m not caring at the moment; ON WITH THE TERRIBLE FIC THAT GIVES THE MIDDLE FINGER TO EVERYTHING THAT IS ACCURATE.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR; Noncon and all that goes with it, spark groping. Not a GORY fic by any means but Optimus is definitely not Okay with any of this. Forced overload. The Matrix getting pissed the fuck off at Sentinel for being a giant asshole.
> 
> Thanks to littlesparklight for beta’ing!

Sentinel was stronger than Optimus could remember. He hadn't often sparred with his mentor, but he did remember being thrown down before- but not like this. 

Nothing like this.

Back then he could /think/ enough to act, but now, everything is instinctual as the horror of betrayal truly sinks in. Realist he may force himself to be, but Optimus is an idealist at heart and he had been hoping against all evidence that he had been _wrong_ , that there had been something _else_ , some shred of a reason to explain Sentinel's actions-

There is none but the understanding that he has been deceived.

A howl of pained rage escapes him, as much from this understanding as from the strike to his chest. He stumbles backwards, receiving another to the chin that sends his processor reeling, and the next thing he knows he has fallen on to his back and the other's weight is upon him. Optimus struggles against Sentinel's grip as the older robot pins Optimus down, but to no avail; he's just now able to make out some of the words that are being shouted at him, but they don't _matter_.

Nothing matters.

"They call us _machines_!" Sentinel rages, shaking him hard enough to rattle his processor once more. Optimus' grip on the other's wrists tightens in continued attempt to free himself, but the other's strength is sure. "And you _let_ them demean you so! Have you lost all sense of _pride_ , Optimus?"

Pride doesn't matter, but he speaks anyway, an ugly grimace on his face as he meets the gaze of his former mentor. "The humans- they are our _true_ allies," he manages to rasp, trying to force a foot between them but with Sentinel upon him so, he can barely move. "Not those who would have-"

Another rattle. There's the briefest, almost hysterical sensation of being treated as a protoform - it passes as quickly as it came. "Would have _what_ , Optimus!? Restored Cybertron? After _you_ damned it to die!?"

The verbal blow is the most painful one so far, for it is one he cannot defend against. His optics flare, vocalizer catching, his shield of anger faltering against the piercing guilt. _Never mourn the past_ , Sentinel had told him before, but this is proof that neither of them is allowed to _forget_ it. Still- he forces a response. "It was- necessary-"

" _So is this._ " Now that the struggling has died down, if only in part, Sentinel leans down to bring their faces close together. His optics _burn_ with a fire to match and threaten to overwhelm Optimus' own. "Do not force me to kill you, Optimus," he says, and there is a _pain_ there as well.

It is bittersweet, knowing that such is mutual. But it is poison as well. Optimus's hands clench uselessly. "I will fight to the end of my life to protect them," he vows, forcing back all other thoughts and feelings and forcing himself to focus on the _here_ and _now_. Sentinel has proven himself to be unredeemable, with the murder of Ironhide and now looking towards the enslavement of the entire human race. "And I will do so without regret."

For a few moments - an eternity, in the thick of the chaos playing out around them - they only stare at one another, Sentinel's face utterly unreadable. Then his grip tightens.

"Then _I_ will not regret _this_."

Optimus is prepared for death. He does not _welcome_ it and the moment a hand is placed to his chest he bucks with all of his considerable mass and strength. And for a moment, it seems as though he will regain if not the upper hand then at least _a_ hand in this fight; Sentinel rears back, and Optimus, battle-forged as he is, pushes his advantage with first one, then another heavy strike, throwing all of himself in to it. His rage, his fury, his _pain_ has all they have done since the beginning of the war for naught!?

Sentinel returns the cry with a passion all his own, the sound of one convinced beyond any rationale that what they are doing is _right_. And perhaps it is, in Sentinel's mind, just as much as Optimus follows his own morality; for that alone he cannot fault him. But for what it _is_ -

That is why he fights. That is why he abandons the thought of reasoning with his teacher and, in his spark, Sentinel Prime is already dead and in the process of being mourned. This- _spectre_ \- before him is naught but a shadow, and as much as there is still _pain_ he must _force_ himself to remove it before it can do any more damage-

Metal shards from his facemask hit the ground, followed by the rest of him. He pushes himself up to continue the fight, but once again a great weight falls upon him; an arm is roughly twisted behind his back and he cannot help but gasp in pain. By the lightning bolt that came from the motion, shooting from servo to spinal strut- he needs a medic. 

Assuming he survives this.

" _I do not want to hurt you,_ " the stern voice of his once idol rumbles in to his audial, "but you leave me _no choice_." The words lead Optimus to clench his fingers in to the ground, expecting the worst. "You must learn," Sentinel continues, using his leverage to force Optimus' cheek against the unforgiving surface as well, "that you have no hope to stop this, and it _will_ happen regardless of what you say or do."

 _He is not planning to terminate me_ , Optimus realizes, but the thought is no comfort. It is clear that Sentinel means to do _something_ , and there is a hand at his chest digging in to the armor there. Optimus grits his denta as he still struggles to push himself up or out of the grip, knowing that even being _disabled_ would be too much. He has to- he has to get free and _stop_ this.

The fuel in his lines turns to ice as he finds he _can't_. Nor can he stop Sentinel's hand forcing its way in between the plating of his chest, and- he'd _offered_ the Matrix, Sentinel had declined, why would he reach for it now?

No.

The hand closes around an entirely different piece of metal and a static-filled screech erupts from Optimus' vocalizer. The thrash of his body is as much instinctual as it is deliberate, the sensation far from pain but just as unwelcome.

Sentinel only presses down harder, hand gripping _to_ the point of pain around the most important part of his anatomy. Underneath the metal, shielded by what seems at this moment to be _far_ too little, his spark flares and surges as if to make its own efforts to free itself.

 _Himself_. He _is_ his spark, the rest of his frame a mere vessel for the life-force. And with everything that has happened, it being literally held within Sentinel's grip is the most distressing thing he can think of.

But Sentinel only keeps his grip steady, holding him still with the unspoken _threat_ until Optimus' efforts shift in to sheer _tension_. His fans sound as though they could rattle out of his frame, and he is _shaking_ with the effort to hold himself still.

He is not frightened.

He is _abhorred_ that Sentinel seems to think that _this_ is 'necessary'.

But once Sentinel deems him still enough, he does something even _more_ unthinkable- his hand begins to _massage_.

With another, with someone he trusted with more than just his life but his _spark_ , it would be an intimate act of trust and a display of affection; here it is an utter _violation_ , but he cannot even manage to _say_ such a thing. He can only stare bright-optic'd at the ground as his shaking involuntarily moves to a full-frame tremble, the simple _sensation_ of the stroking fingers enough to render him all but helpless.

Sentinel is saying something, but it does not matter. He understands the _tone_ in there, the lecturing resonance that seeks to make this as nothing more than a lesson from teacher to student. But what lesson is there to learn here? That Sentinel can force him, and further violate the trust they once had?

He opens his mouth to say something, but all that he manages is a strangled groan as one of those damned fingers rub against a seam of the chamber itself. The metal is damnably sensitive, overtly a measure to protect the critical energy within, but they have lived too long as a species to not have learned how to exploit such a thing.

For better or for worse.

There's the _briefest_ of pauses at the sound he makes- and then the caress grows even stronger, forcing another jerk of his body as the sensation threatens to consume him. Still he fights against it, using his grip upon the ground as a vain steadying point as he struggles to keep himself.

His anger. His guilt. Anything to shield him from his _helplessness_ , and _that_ is the reason for this, Sentinel informs him. To drive home how he cannot even protect his _spark_ , so how can he expect to protect an entire _planet_?

"I take no pleasure in this," whispers the voice above him, but that is no comfort. And whether truth or lie, it does not matter.

Optimus dims his optics, turns his face in to the ground, and waits for it to be over. If he cannot stop it, he will endure it, and then push the disgust and loathing of the violation at bay long enough to do what is necessary. But the hand about him does not seem _content_ , with its maddening motions, and it seems as though Sentinel is holding _back_ now that he's resigned himself.

He suppresses whatever responses want to form, the wretched shivers that go through him far better than the writhing some part of him _wants_ to do, the strangled sounds better than the outright moans that want to announce themselves. There's the inane urge to at least _pretend_ it is someone else and have an excuse - but that is a _wretched_ thought and banished as soon as it forms. 

_It will be over, you will survive, you will **stop** him and Megatron and the rest of the Decepticons and this will be **nothing**_

"You cannot stop this," Sentinel says softly, fingers pressing _in_ , and Optimus bites down on his lip to muffle the outright _whine_ of his vocalizer as fingers brush his spark directly.

Violation is an understatement for what this is. And how Sentinel is deliberately trying to force his body to enjoy it. There's no other explanation for how he's now _taking his time_ , outright _toying_ with the spark energies. Weaving them around his fingers in a parody of loving attentions, and it takes every ounce of willpower for Optimus to hold himself back to not _react_.

With Sentinel's voice so gentle, his touch so careful, if this was a lifetime ago then maybe-

_No._

He emits another sound, this one _pained_ , but the pain is from memory alone. A subpar defense against the onslaught of pleasure Sentinel is inflicting upon him, a cruel and merciless attack on to his psyche. It _hurts_ as much as it feels _good_ , and Optimus silently screams to nothing for this transgression upon his person.

_I do not want this._

The voice and fingers are nothing but soothing, pushing past the pain, and _finally_ the build-up of energy breaks and consumes him. For a few profane seconds Optimus loses himself in the shameful ecstasy, unaware that his scream has become audible. Unaware of Sentinel's regretful expression, of the lowering of the other's head to the back of his helm, of the dimming of optics and the press of mouth plating to blemished blue armor-

He is not even aware he is still trembling until he becomes aware of Sentinel's grip having shifted to _hold_ him, his numb arm freed so that the other may stroke at his back. _Disgust_ fills him, both for his rapist and his own weakness, but with his spark still within the other's hand he cannot move even if he had the will to.

He is, for the moment at least, done.

"Take your mechs and go," quietly urges the older mech. "Find another planet, another _lesser race_ to befriend if it suits you, and leave this one to Cybertron and its people. I will ensure you are not followed. If you so wish," he adds, disdain coming through, "take your favoured vassals _with_ you as well. Consider them a gift."

For one horrible moment that he will regret for the rest of his life, Optimus Prime considers those words.

The next, his optics flicker back on, narrowed to furious slits. " _No_ ," he growls, voice _deadly_ with barely-suppressed hatred and promise, and then it is Sentinel's turn to pause and if he wasn't certain the mech could recover himself in time to pull out his chamber he would be turning and thrusting his blade straight in to the other's processor.

Instead, to both of their surprise, there is a sudden flaring in Optimus' chest that has little to do with his spark.

Sentinel Prime shouts in pain, pulling out a hand that is _glowing red_ from the heat of the burn, while a surge of energy rushes in to Optimus- giving him what he needs to throw himself forwards and out of that grip. He crouches on the ground, shielding his smashed chest with his good arm as he faces Sentinel- who is now pulling back as well, looking from his scorched hand to Optimus, and then down to his open chest. Optimus means only to shield his spark further, an unconscious and almost _modest_ motion, but finds his own gaze drawn down to a bright light completely alien to his frame.

For Optimus's spark is blue, like the day sky of this world- but _this_ light is white, like the core of its' sun.

When Optimus is able to look back up, he still cannot say anything, but he is able to meet Sentinel's gaze with a stormy glare. Sentinel narrows his optics and slowly, deliberately pushes himself up.

"You are lucky," he says gravely, "that I didn't kill you."

As much as Optimus would _like_ to lunge at him for that statement, he is injured, and still weak from the surge of overload- not to mention other circumstances. He remains where he is as Sentinel turns away, spark _aching_ , and the secondary warmth in his chest the only thing that gives him the composure to finally stand up and limp away as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have /attempted/ to make this next part believable insomuch as post-rape trauma, but at the same point I stand on the basis of that while there are similarities, everyone reacts differently.   
> In addition, /due in part/ to how I wanted things to go, things may be moving a bit too quick here. Again, I attempted to make it believable, but it may ping as 'NOPE' for a few reasons. [I sure had my 'uuuhmmm' parts, and ended up reworking half of it because of that.].
> 
> And yes, parts of it are intended to be confusing as all fuck. HAVE FUN.

Optimus Prime collapses a little over an hour away. Tactical necessity forced him to transform and abandon the city, if only for now- emotional necessity forced him to get _away_ from the point of overwhelming- well, everything. But now that he _is_ away, that he has found himself on a road that is utterly empty, now that he has reported the situation to the rest of the Autobots and their allies and the have their own plans to make-

Now he is in the dirt, out of sight of the road, and with his face in his hands as he utters another silent scream.

His spark _hurts_. It was not hurt but it is _hurting_ , more than his aggravated arm that self-repair has barely restored motion to. Ratchet will need to ensure its restoration, but that is later. This is now, and this is him in a rare and private moment of _agony_.

He blames himself. He blames Sentinel, Megatron, the humans for lying to them all- but mostly he blames himself for not being able to stop this, for not seeing things as they were, _for being deceived_. He blames himself _for_ the humans, _for_ Ironhide, for everything...

It hurts, and for what seems like ages, it swallows him. He is drowning in the dark of guilt and shame, two emotions he is far from unfamiliar with but never has he felt them so _fiercely_. Never have they struck his spark so, not even when Megatron first reached for _more_. This is...

This is too much for him. And though there is a voice within his processor that reminds him he must go on, _will_ go on, and how he knows this is true and that pain will fade and even if it doesn't _he must go on_ \- now he can surrender to his pain, if only for now, and _let_ himself feel _weak_.

He rolls on to his back, hands still covering his face, shielding it as much as they muffle the few choked sounds that _do_ make themselves audible- ones filled with frustrated rage as much as they are pain. And so it is until the worst of that pain has ravaged him, exhaustion starting to stem it, and the warmth that has been within him since he escaped Sentinel's ( _cursed_ ) hands goes just a bit more so.

And Optimus' shaking stops. 

For a few moments more he lies there, only venting heavily. And then- _tentatively_ \- he tries to push _back_. 

It is...not the first time he has attempted to communicate with the artifact that dwells within him. The wisdom of the Primes has always been available to him since that fateful struggle against the Fallen, when it almost seemed as though it was _their_ hands that were directing him and _their_ voices crying out for vengeance. (All told, something he was glad to give.) But ever since then it has seemed to be only a repository, a database of information for him to tap as he would his own memories. He does not... _experience_ memories from it, exactly, but what it has, it has shared freely.

This... _presence_ , though. This is not something he is used to. He is not altogether certain he has even made any sort of contact with it, at least until it returns the push with a flare of warmth.

_We are here,_ , it seems- _they_ seem to say. And it is the _oddest_ sort of communication, because it is entirely wordless and there is not even _emotion_. It is simply- there. 

A heavy gust of air escapes his vents. _Didn't know you guys could sigh_ , he distantly remembers Sam saying once, and he did remember seeing the others make such sounds and motions- perhaps it is comparable to such. But- that isn't here. The fact that the /Matrix/, or whatever serves as its presence be it single or many or gestalt or something else entirely, was aware of what has just transpired-

-he is struck with a _firm_ negative before he can even finish that thought. There is no shame in what occurred. He is not lessened for it, nor is he at fault. The knowledge, so tied to what had been racing through his processor moments ago, is all but reeling.

It was present for that?

It/we are present for all things, but such a presence is overwhelming, and the time has passed where it/we were given a true voice. It/we are content to remain as it/we are. Is?

Optimus' hands at his helm grip for an entirely _new_ reason. The communication- or attempt thereof- makes his processor swim. There is the momentary feeling of being _sick_ , and at such, the presence- presences- retract and withdraw back in to a subtle warmth. Something for which he _is_ thankful, he tries to express, but- for the moment he just needs...he just needs to process all of it.

The heat is gone, as is thought for a few long moments. Finally, Optimus heaves another great sigh, and rests a hand on his damaged chest.

_Hand reaching in, grabbing him_

His optics dim, fingers curling against warped metal. He is weary. He is spark-tired, exhaustion having replaced the pain. Optimus stares up at the mottled sky, silent for a time, the dull warmth under his hand a sign that while it is remaining quiet, it is not gone. Another subtle _push_ , and it returns, the feeling not unlike leaning against another and feeling them lean back in return. It is _odd_ and it is _strange_ , but it is...not the most unpleasant thing he has experienced. Far from it. Even with this...travesty...

_Disgust._ The others- gathered as one- momentarily overwhelm him again, but he quickly understands that it is not directed at _him_ but at what _happened_. There is...none towards him, and that surprises him. At least, none that comes, even when he gives another push of what he hopes is query but, still, _still_... 

And that. _That_ is almost _overwhelming_. For he has lost, he has lost his mentor and he has lost his faith in such and what can he do to stop this?

_He will find a way, if not to stop it, then to do what is right._

Yes, he will find a way. Optics flicker as he rests on this thought, which _in itself_ was never in doubt. Even through those moments of agony he knew he would get through it, but...he just...

He needs to get moving again. He has so much he needs to do, and he is surprised to see when he checks his chronometer that it has only been a short time since he pulled off the road. It seems like days, but at the same time, he can still _feel_ that hand on his casing, pressing in-

Optimus _shudders_. The subtle swell of warmth that insists that it was _not_ his fault is, at least, supplied by an outsider. But- he wonders- 

Could it have stopped this? If not the invasion, then at least...?

There is no warmth. There is no _coldness_ , but it is a long few seconds before there is anything that could signal a response, during which he suppresses fear- no contempt for him, before, but has he inadvertently offended them? And finally there _is_ a prickle of warmth, and-

Apology? _Not without what you would not have_ , and- ah. _Not without taking control_ which is _taxing_ at best, to all involved, and-he _supposes_ he understands and is grateful and against the violation of will and the violation of... _and it is regretful that it even went so far as it did before_

His hand clenches, optics going completely offline. He still feels _sick_ that this happened, and that this happened from _Sentinel_. As is the Matrix, it seems, by the _heat_ and the echoing of that thought. 

_That was **wrong**_.

It is his own thought as much as it is the heat that swells within him. The heat that does, at least, banish the memory of the sickeningly-gentle hand upon and within him and against all odds, Optimus finds himself _relaxing_ in to it. It is...so peculiar. As though there is _another_ something holding him (how?) in an unspeakably intimate manner and doing _only_ that. Lending support through presence and belief but only _holding_.

The Matrix is metal and energy. The fact that it can convey _any_ sensation, even with it being an artifact he has only begun to fathom, is amazing.

Reassured that his trust in it is not misplaced [and, perhaps, vice versa] he takes another few moments to simply cycle air. It is...as close to safety as he can get, for the moment, and though he feels _guilty_ for indulging in such _why should he feel guilty?_

Because he needs to go. He is exhausted and if not a recharge then he needs energon, but there is no time for either. 

_It/we could help with that._

Optimus has been in this state before. Why would it act now? _Other than the fact that they hadn't made a strong effort to communicate now_ that hardly mattered. He would not _deny_ the aid, but...

He doesn't understand.

He is starting to push himself back up by the time there is an answer, and it is...mixed. As though different minds had different reasons but were all agreed upon it, for what happened was _wrong_ and the situation was _dire_ and how _dare_ that wretched excuse of a Prime do such a thing but it was clear that it was _important_ , at least to Optimus, and it was too. Loud.

It pulls back, that not-quite-emotional-but-still-apologetic thought flickering through. Optimus recovers slowly but he _does_ recover, processor coming to the conclusion that if assistance can be offered he _must_ take it. He has wasted enough time already. And whatever it has in, well, mind...

He will allow it. In a sense he welcomes it _though he does not know what it is_ and he has given it his trust and _should it seem at all alarming, he only must express as much_ and then

And then.

And then the heat entirely envelopes him, swelling from spark to pede, and it leads his optics to flare and his back to arch up off the ground and a breathy _gasp_ of vents as suddenly too much, **too much**

It stops. Immediately. There is an almost burning sensation left behind but not a painful one and the majority of it has _stopped_ , _and is waiting but if that is it that is it-_

He needs another moment. Did the Matrix really think it could assist with...with...

"What _was_ that?" he cannot help but ask aloud, and he is disturbed by how unsteady his own voice it. At least it is coherent, but- 

_Energy transfer_. The only way it _can_ transfer at this point, at least the amount that is necessary to get Optimus running at, well, optimal. Certainly not so great a restoration as when it had revived him from the edge of death, but that was different. And- from the sense he is getting from it, it is _similar_ to what it did to aid him only so long ago, a more concentrated flare that it cannot keep up for long if at all, and only gives the same sort of energy, but if Optimus truly does desire a strength that remains _it/we can help with that_.

If he lets it.

He understands why it was hesitant, considering how...there are parallels. He cycles his vents heavily, looking back up in to the lightening sky, and with a thought to his friends- Autobot and human, living or tragically perished- he curls his fingers in to the ground, taking grip.

_Do it._

Again there is a swell of energy, again he arches, and- _horrifically_ familiar, _agonizingly_ pleasurable. The Matrix-to-spark connection is like a tight cable that is trembling as the energy goes through, or maybe that's just his own form. But if this is what he has to endure, if this is what he must take in order to...in order to...

The heat _shifts_ , and once more, there is a phantom sensation. His optics flicker before offlining completely, unable to stay online as it feels as though _someone_ has swept in behind him, tucking themselves there and helping to keep him up as his elbows lock in place. A not-weight doesn't-quite-settle upon him, and it can't be his imagination that there's another set of hands stroking his sides, attempting to soothe. All of these- and more- are comforts he cannot deny, but they are comforts that make a choked cry of static escape his already strained vocalizer.

_Someone cupping his face, stroking the sides, tracing delicate fingers along the contours of seams_

_hands at his shoulders, pressing in, his damaged joint feeling so /warm/ as pieces are massaged back in to proper working orders_

_another set at his chest, stroking the damaged plating, soothing it flat and sure_

_and more_

He's surrounded by _warmth_ and _welcoming_ and- yes. A bit of _joy_. Joy that they've been allowed to help in one of the few ways they can, _pleasure_ that is as much theirs as his own, and when his spark does flutter in memory of being prodded against his will they ease back only enough to work with what energy _has_ been focused and put it to use, and he is utterly _drowning_ in their presence.

It is as different from Sentinel as day is from night. This time, when Optimus surrenders, it is willingly and with _trust_ and just a bit of _need_ that he may or may not have admitted to even himself.

They do not betray him.

They continue to work him, his body, his spark- through methods he does not know, for the one time his optics manage to restore sight there is absolutely no one but him here. But he _feels_ them nonetheless, hands and fingers and bodies and _warmth_ , and, briefly, he feels _regret_.

The reason for that comes quickly enough; regret that this comes after _that_ , and that this cannot linger.

_I don't care,_ he cries wordlessly, pushing himself as far in to the _feeling_ as he can. _Please, I beg you. Help me. Lend me your strength, and the strength to do what is necessary._ Not a request he makes of any mech, but- here, _now_ , there is little restraint to thought or whim. Not when he is being so utterly consumed by the high of the energy and the pleasure.

The connection snaps all too soon. Static is all that escapes him as his spark flares, sending him in to the most powerful overload that he can remember in his life. And through it all, he still feels them. Their support, their encouragement, and their _understanding_ as the beginnings of something comes to mind, something that is perhaps one few ways he can save who is left but it involves a sacrifice but Sam himself had said something else; _no sacrifice, no victory_

When he sags back on to the ground, the warmth lingers, but the _warmth_ is retreating. His attempt to push is met only with a tired, and once-again subtle flare; it has done all it can. And considering that his form looks...if not pristine, than at _least_ as though he is once more ready for battle...

A battle which may- no. _Will_ come sooner than he hopes, but they do not have the time.

_I thank you,_ he tells it, with all the sincerity he can muster. Once more, that subtle flare of acknowledgement, of _welcome_...and he _senses_ as much as feels it once more going dormant. Not cold, but-

The rest, he knows, pulling himself together to transform and contact his Autobots, is up to him. Them. All of them.

It will not be easy. Nor will it be without pain. But- they will do it together, even if they must stand alone.

And that is what matters.


End file.
